Skyfall
by Owl-head
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. A month after his best friend's fall, it's back to the real world for Watson: back to work and back to Baker Street. But, as he struggles with the realities of Sherlock's absence, he soon learns that no military or medical training could've taught him to cope. Inspired by "Six Degrees of Separation" by the Script. Fluff. Rated T for brief language.


This is what I imagined might have transpired in Watson's world after Sherlock's death. As I often get my inspiration from music, I was inspired to write this, in part, by The Script's "Six Degrees of Separation." I stole the story title from the new _007_ movie, _Skyfall_. As always, all comments, suggestions, and reviews are appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The jump was a blur. And the fall was a dream. I refused to believe that he was gone. I was convinced that I'd just dozed off at work again, and was having a nightmare…

Until I was bent over his limp body on the pavement, phone still gripped tightly in a fist. Then, I was thrust back into reality. Then, I was speechless. Frantic. Hyperventilating. Nearly hysterical.

"Sherlock?" I'd tentatively asked the phone in my grip, the body under me. As if calling his name would revive him. By then, I'd grabbed his lifeless arm, holding tightly to the fabric of his sleeve. "_Sherlock?_" This time, a plea. The tears had begun to collect like rain water, threatening to spill down my face in a stream. I'd jammed the phone back against my ear, anticipating the sarcastic, yet soothing reply. But, when he didn't answer, that was it. The dam had broken. I'd all at once crumpled over his body like a child, clutching at the fabric of his familiar trench. Soaking it in my salty tears. A policeman had to pull me away from him. They'd tried to drag me back and calm me with reassuring words; but, I didn't hear a thing. All I could do was watch his form, on the sidewalk, drifting further and further away from me. And, even then, as I was dragged away, I'd franticly kept pressing the receiver back to my ear, hoping, _praying_ he'd come back on the line. Waiting.

But, all I ever heard was the low tone of a lost call. Of a lost friend. My only friend. One of the only friends I'd ever had.

No post-traumatic stress from Afghanistan can ever compare. No amount of medical expertise can condition you. Years of dealing with and examining dead bodies couldn't prepare you for the dead body of your _best friend_.

Watching your best friend die.

Knowing you could've stopped it. Staring at his lifeless body. And knowing there's nothing you can do. He's gone. After spending a week in the hospital's trauma ward, and three more at a London hotel, today was my first day back at work. It was also supposed to be my first day back at 221B Baker Street.

Supposed to be.

But, I couldn't get myself to go back to Baker Street. Not really. Not even for a few minutes. There's an unearthly emptiness there, like the hollowness of an unused basement, or the loneliness of being the only one riding the city bus.

So, I stayed late at the office, pretending I had patient paperwork to file. There was also a bottle of whiskey I'd recently stowed in the top drawer of my desk. But I was caught off-guard when she walked in. I'd been fiddling with a pen and slouched in my chair. I was spaced out, staring at pictures. Pictures of Sherlock and me, ones that I'd clipped from newspapers and tabloids. In one candid, he was wearing that silly hat he hated so much.

In another photo (one I'd snapped over his shoulder, without his permission), he was turned towards the window at our flat. His back faced the camera. It was overcast, dark, and raining behind him, through the curtains. He'd thoughtfully propped his violin up on his shoulder and was composing something beautiful on his violin. I remembered that sweet melody like a haze. His arbitrary musical soirées used to keep me up at odd hours of the night. And, in the morning at breakfast, I'd yell at him for it. Now, I'd give anything to fall asleep to that cacophony. To make fun of his floppy hat again, so he can call me an insolent Neanderthal again. It's funny how you miss the little things, when somebody's gone.

When she knocked, my head snapped up, almost sheepishly. I blinked, disoriented and dazed. All at once my head began to ache. I felt sick. "John, are you alright?" Someone was outside my office, peeping through the door I'd left ajar. I closed my eyes. Then reopened them. My brain was playing tricks on me. Illusions.

It was Molly. Or, _was_ it Molly? She never talked to me. Never bothered with me. Unless she was using me to get to Sherlock. Heck, I can't remember if she'd ever said my _name_ before.

And, then she said it again. "John?" And I knew it was her. _Am I alright? Bloody hell, of course, _I wanted to snap in sarcastic reply. _I just lost my best friend. But fine. Just_ _bloody fine. "_Yeah, fine," I decided to say instead. My voice was monotone. The last thing I needed was sympathy. I just wanted to be alone.

As anticipated, Molly didn't buy my bland response. She stepped into the room, timidly, playing with her fingers, looking down. "You really, um, shouldn't do that to yourself," she said quietly to her hands.

"Do what?" "Those pictures. Leaving them on your desk. You're torturing yourself. I miss him too, John. He was a good man. A _great_ man. But he's gone, John." She looked up. There were tears welling up in her eyes. She loved Him. That lucky bastard. He had love. He had everything. But, he'd thrown it all away…

I could feel the tears in my eyes, too. I tried to push them back. I did. "Did you ever think, Molly, that he maybe…just _maybe_, he might...not be..." My voice was quivering. I paused, trying to calm myself. I took a deep breath. " ...dead?" the last word came out like a squeak. "That maybe, maybe it's just another one of his _stunts_? Maybe he's still…?" I took another breath, blinking back more tears. He was still alive. That was the only thing I would let myself believe. I refused to accept that he was gone...even though that was probably the truth. So I tried to think about the good times we'd had. The memories I had of him: Hunting an imaginary, monstrous death-hound. Sneaking into a—what's the word?—_bold_ prostitute's house. Watching him recite a bunch of absolute rubbish in national court. Sitting in Buckingham Palace, telling Him to put on clothes. Punching Him in the face.

"John," she replied in a low voice, "he's gone." "He can't be," I muttered. I refused to believe it.

He couldn't be dead..._could he?_ "Well, if there's anything you need—Um, wait, not 'need.' I mean, if there's anything I can do—I mean—Wait, that came out wrong. You know, I mean, 'do,' like make you breakfast, or just—"

"Thanks, Molly," I said. I forced a halfhearted grin. It was all I could muster. But, she _was_ very sweet that way. Always thinking of others. It was the nicest thing she'd ever said to me, I think. There was a pause.

Then, she added, replied, with a makeshift smile, "It sure is late." Checked her watch. "Almost ten. Thought you usually worked 'til seven." "Yeah," I replied slowly. "Hey, how—how did you, uh, know that?"

She blushed. "Oh, I—um, I,...I just kind of notice you, I guess, leaving sometimes. I work until seven thirty on Mondays and—Wait, that sounds creepy. I'm not _stalking _you, I promise! Oh, and Sherlock _did_ mention something about—" There was His name again. "It's fine, Molly," I said, to change the subject. I cleared my throat. "Aren't you going to go home?"

"Eventually," I lied. "Just finishing up some paperwork." I deliberately positioned my pen over a page, as if I'd been writing something important.

Molly smiled. She regarded the blank sheets of computer paper spread across my desk. "Some _paperwork_ you have there," she noted playfully.

I was too disoriented to reply. Too defeated. Too tired of it all. Instead, I just glanced again at one of the photos on my desk. Sherlock and me outside 221B. I was grinning. Sherlock had turned the collar of his coat up in an attempt to look 'effortlessly cool' for the press. A picture from the _Evening Standard_. I took a deep, jagged breath. I was going to lose it again.

Then, suddenly, something brushed my shirt collar, making me jump. At first, I thought it was a bug landing on me. Or, a breeze from the air conditioner overhead. But, when I glanced up, I was startled to see it'd been Molly. "It's going to be okay," she murmured, nearly a whisper, close to my ear. She touched me and gripped my shoulders and rubbed her hand down my back. Her hands stroked my neck. "It's going to be okay," she reiterated. "Breath." I sighed deeply in her embrace. Closed my eyes. Oh, there was a change in Molly. She wasn't the same naïve girl I first met in the lab that day…

Then, her next words caught me off-guard: "I love you, Sherlock, oh, I love y—"

I froze. "I'm not Sherlock, Molly," I interrupted her tersely. I opened my eyes and shifted uneasily in my chair.

Molly gasped, backing away towards the door. "Oh, John, I'm sorry! That's not what I—I didn't mean to—"

"What time did you say it was?" I slid my chair out, rubbing my eyes. I didn't wait for her reply. "I have a ten o'clock appointment." I stood quickly, holding the desk for support. I started for my coat, wincing as I walked. My Afghanistan-injured leg had been acting up for the first time in months.

"John, wait, I—"

I slipped by her, sore, tired, and sick to my stomach.

"Don't do this to me, Molly. Don't," I said. And then, I waltzed out, forgetting, even, to lock the door behind me.

* * *

"And that's it. That's everything. After that, I came straight here, for our appointment.

"I—I don't get it. It's like he's taken over my life somehow. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I can't—I can't focus at work, or…I can't even go _home_. I mean, Baker Street doesn't even _feel_ like, like home. I feel like a vagrant anymore. And, the girl I've had a thing for, she finally talks to me, but—she won't—Everything's just…." My voice sunk almost to an incomprehensible whisper. "I don't—I don't know what to do anymore. Sometimes, I think that, if I could go back to the army, things would be…" Easier? Simpler? More regulated? More dangerous? I let the last sentence float away, not knowing exactly what I meant. I didn't understand anything that came out of my mouth. Not anymore. It was like a supernatural force had taken hold of my brain and was thinking things and saying things for me. Things I didn't understand or comprehend.

When I finished speaking, her pen finally stopped. She'd been taking notes the entire time. It was quite intimidating, the way she'd scribble something every now and then, on her mysterious clipboard. I wondered what sort of comments she'd made to herself. I wouldn't be surprised if the words 'crazy' or 'psychopath' were written in out in swirly handwriting. Bloody hell, even _I _thought something was wrong with me.

She looked up to stare at me, analyze me. Her gaze was pensive. Her coffee hair was tucked out of her face and her sleeves were rolled up. She was thinking hard. She gripped the pen hard between her clenched forefinger and thumb. There was a bit of dirt under her red-painted fingernails, callus on her thumb…Sherlock would've been able to make something of that. From those clues alone, he would've been able to make a case of what my therapist did in her free time, what her love life was like, or what she ate for breakfast…

Oh, how I missed that bastard and his uncanny knack for observation.

I sighed audibly. I couldn't do _anything_ without thinking of him. I couldn't handle it anymore.

"John," she said finally. I was jerked from my reverie. I blinked hard, fighting my tired eyes. I needed a beer or something. Or a hard ale. She looked hesitant. Like she was deciding whether or not to speak. To tell me the truth or not. "You're a doctor, so I don't expect you to be surprised by what I'm going to say."

"And?"

"I hate to tell you this, but, John… I think you're depressed."

"Depressed?" I said. What could I say?

"You show all of the symptoms, John: sluggishness, tiredness, constant nausea. Inability to sleep. Loss of appetite. Inflammation of old war injuries. Inability to focus. It's a good thing you came to me when you did. John, you can't let Sherlock Holmes control your life. He was your best friend, I understand. When you came back from Afghanistan—I remember you telling me in one of your early sessions—, you said that he was your _only _friend. When you returned from the war, there were no family or friends in London to whom you could turn. And Sherlock Holmes was that friend to you.

"But, you can't hold onto him anymore. It's not a trick or a game; he's not going to come back, John. You're in denial. As much as you want to deny it, Sherlock Holmes is _dead_. He's not rising from the dead or coming back to life. You have to accept that. He can't control you anymore. He was a great friend, but you have to move on. He was just a _man_, John. All men die. It's a natural part of life."

I glanced out the window. Rain was coming down in sheets beneath low, dark clouds, like in that picture of Sherlock on my desk. "No," I said quietly. "it's _my_ fault. I could've…I could've …If I had only just _talked_ to him…"

"John, listen to me," she said calmly. I reverted my gaze. "it was _not_ your fault. There's nothing you could've done to stop him. _Nothing_. It was his choice, and his choice alone. He did it all on his own. John, it wasn't you. Now, breath."

I realized now that I was hyperventilating. Trying to breath. I was a mess. What had become of me? What had Holmes done to me?

"Now, John, you have to face this head-on. You can't hide anymore. No excuses, no regrets. There's nothing you could've done. You have to move on. Now, I'm going to prescribe you an antidepressant." She paused to write something on a piece of paper, then handed it to me across the table. "You can pick it up tomorrow morning. Now, I want you to do something. I want you to go home tonight. Home to Baker Street."

I could breath now. Blinked hard. Thinking. "I—I can't."

"It's the first step, John. Now, I want to see you back here on Tuesday." She plucked a PDA from her pocket. There was a sudden shift in her tone. All at once, she was businesslike. "Okaay. Would you like to keep the 10PM? I have a 9."

"Ten's fine," I muttered. As quickly as I'd come in, I was grabbing my coat and limping to my car. Back to reality.

* * *

I debated dropping by the pub for a drink. Or four. But, instead, I went back to 221B Baker Street just as I'd been instructed. But, soon, I was sorry I had. My head and heart were pounding, just sitting in the driveway. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had to. I knew it. Sherlock was gone. I had to move on. _I had to move on…_

I closed my eyes for a moment. Then reopened them. And, then, in a rush, without another thought, I threw open the car door, shrunk under the heavy rain, and scuttled to the red front door of 221B Baker Street.

But, I stopped before I could walk through. Suddenly, I was hit with memories. An awful assortment of mini-flashes of memories. I saw Sherlock and I drinking tea one morning, pouring over a new murder. I saw him interrogating distraught old ladies and children, desperate for a case to stimulate his brain. I saw him sitting, pensive in his big armchair, fingertips together in thought. I saw him in that ridiculous floppy hat he despised so much. Then, I saw his dead body, spread-eagled on the bloody pavement. Lifeless.

My heart punched me in the chest, beating faster and faster until it was pounding in my ears. I couldn't. _Sherlock was….._

I stopped myself. _Sherlock was dead._ _Gone_.

I could do this. It's the first step, I told myself. The first step.

So, I braced myself. Held my breath. And opened the door.

I looked around. I wasn't sure what I was expecting to see. But, everything was just as I had left it. As Sherlock had left it. Or, as much as I could tell in the dark. Empty test tubes were lined up on the kitchen table. Top Secret crime files were in stacks on the couch. The silhouette of my laptop was open on the floor.

I stepped inside, walked down the dark hallway to my room. Looked inside. Everything in its place.

A sudden crack of thunder made me jump. More rain pounded the roof.

I took a few steps further. Sherlock's room.

My insides churned. I held my breath. _Did I dare?_

I did.

But, just as had been the case with my room, nothing had been moved. Nothing had been touched.

What was I expecting? Did I expect Him to be sitting there, on the bed he never used, plucking on his violin? Either way, there was a strange aura about it. Like he was still there. The clothes on the floor, the papers everywhere. Like he was just out late on a case, and I was just waiting for him to come home.

But, he wasn't coming home. Not ever.

Another stroke of thunder shook the house.

Even Mother Nature agreed with me.

Maybe I _did_ need that antidepressant. Maybe that'd fix me.

I did my best to think about something else, and stumbled back to my room in the dark. I wouldn't turn on the lights. I was afraid it'd make everything more real, more final.

Then, all at once, I was sorry I hadn't.

My bloody crippled leg caught on something that sent me flying forwards and landing hard on my arm. "Shit," I said. Why was I always leaving that cane by the door? I really needed to clean up.

"Shit," I said again. Or, _did_ I say it?

No, this time it hadn't come from my own mouth.

_Could it be…?_

"Sherlock?" I asked the darkness tentatively. Desperately. Suddenly, I was back on the pavement, leaning over his body with a phone in my hand.

"Shit, Watson," the darkness spat back. "you just stepped on me."

The breath caught in my throat. Then, suddenly, I was okay and back on my feet and stumbling to the light switch with newfound strength.

I blinked against the light.

"_You're alive?_ Shit, Sherlock," It was my turn to cuss. I looked down at him, sprawled on the floor, dumbfounded. He was gripping his face. Behind his hand, there appeared to be a bit of blood. I think I'd kicked him in the mouth. In moments, I was furious. "Shit, _shit_, you _bloody _bastard, how the _hell _could you _do_ that to me? Do you _realize_ what you put me through, you fuc—"

"Missed you too, Watson. Now, Captain Foul Mouth, would you come help me up? Because, I think you just dislocated my jaw."


End file.
